


sunshine ain't about the light (it's about the warmth)

by mushydesserts



Series: (the only light we'll see) [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Healing, Ignis has Issues, M/M, Pep Talk, Post-Canon, Prompto Argentum is a Brave Motherfucker, protective prompto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-28 11:37:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11417142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mushydesserts/pseuds/mushydesserts
Summary: Prompto: Hey! You remember what you wanted to be growing up, Ignis?Ignis: My childhood aspirations? Hmm...Prompto: No need to go in depth, really.When he was a child, Ignis had briefly thought that he might like to be a pilot.(When you've been raised your entire life for a job you'll never have, it's easy to feel a bit like a broken machine.It takes a while for Ignis to realize Prompto might know how that is. Kinkmeme fill.)





	sunshine ain't about the light (it's about the warmth)

**Author's Note:**

> For [this prompt](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/3892.html?thread=5338164#cmt5338164) about Aranea's pep talk during Episode Prompto, and Prompto passing it on to one of the remaining bros.

\--

_Prompto: Hey! You remember what you wanted to be growing up, Ignis?_

_Ignis: My childhood aspirations? Hmm..._

_Prompto: No need to go in depth, really._

\--

The first time Ignis tries to make the pastry after the Dawn, he burns it.

He hasn't burned anything in the kitchen in years. Not since he learned the quirks of this oven, the angles of the notched dials; not since he learned to listen for the quiet ticking of the timer on the nearby counter, to know what 'cooked enough' smells like without opening the door. He's had this recipe for ten years now. He's known it for longer than it took him to find it. It should have been a piece of cake (or tart, as it may be).

When he'd made it, just the once, during the Dark, he'd let Gladio and Prompto taste test for him. "Huh. S'good," Gladio had said gruffly after a few bites. Prompto had shoved the whole thing in his mouth and chewed appreciatively for so long that Ignis was half-certain he'd choke. He'd eventually swallowed. "Just the best," he'd sighed. "It always is, Iggy."

But now these berries aren't as sweet as he'd have liked, and the custard isn't setting right, and Ignis takes the tray out of the oven to check that the batch won't be a complete waste.

He tastes a piece. It tastes decent.

He scowls.

The thing is, Ignis doesn't know what it's meant to be like. The damned pastry always tastes decent to him. Gladio'll eat anything, and if Prompto likes a dish, it's always The Best Thing He's Ever Eaten, Ignis, Please Marry Me. It's Noct who had always been able to tell whether the sweetness too cloying, or the texture too creamy, or the dough just slightly _off_ for reasons he couldn't explain. He'd still eat it, of course, and he'd still be thankful, and he'd still smile. There are dozens of trial recipes in a notebook somewhere, neat notes in the margins, ingredients crossed out, measurements modified, meticulous records in a hand that Ignis can't read anymore.

Ignis shoves the tray back into the oven and closes the door just a bit too hard.

He takes it out again when he smells the smoke.

He winds up tossing the whole batch into the bin. The kitchen smells like burnt berries for the rest of the day, and Ignis doesn't eat supper, too nauseous and put out to work up an appetite.

\--

When he was a child, Ignis had briefly thought that he might like to be a pilot.

Life in Insomnia was grounded. That was just the nature of living in a walled city. Lucis had the technology to create flying machines, or had once had it, anyway; there were old aeronautics texts in the Citadel libraries, none of which had been comprehensible to a six-year-old Ignis, but he had certainly enjoyed the pictures and the blueprints. Niflheim had the more advanced flight technology by far. That was one of the reasons the damned war was such a mess. The Guard and the Glaive had some limited access to air-capable vehicles for field missions, but no civilian within Insomnia would've had the chance to grow familiar with the sky.

When he was six, Ignis tended to retreat to a particular terrace high up in the Citadel during breaks between lessons. Access to the terrace itself was restricted, so Ignis liked to sit on the second level overlooking it, peering out over the city.

The geography of it was fairly dull. Ignis had gotten used to the view quickly. Instead, he'd wondered what the mountains looked like. The sea. Snow, real snow, drifts of it as high as buildings somewhere on a foreign continent.

If he could fly one of those machines he saw in the books...

The breaks between his lessons were half an hour long. He'd always get to precisely that point in his daydreaming before he'd check his watch, and then he'd be off for linguistics, or history, or etiquette, or mathematics, or whatever it was that day.

It had been a ridiculous dream. Children had those.

Anyway, he'd seen enough of the world eventually. And then there'd been nothing to see, so what was the loss?

\--

Prompto stops by for dinner at least twice a week now.

 _Dinner_ isn't accurate. Prompto stops by whenever Ignis is cooking.

Whatever it is. At whatever time of day. Whether it's a dessert, a breakfast food, afternoon tea; whether it's one of Prompto's favorites, or a twist on a classic food, or a dish that Ignis has never tried before and that Prompto isn't sure anybody would _want_ to try, really Ignis, do you remember the tofu? Remember The Tofu?

Ignis can always tell Prompto is coming because of the whiff of motor oil he gets when the door opens. Prompto's usually at the garage when he's in town, working on this or that project for Cindy. When he's not in town — Ignis isn't sure what he gets up to, precisely. Prompto doesn't really take hunts now that the daemons are gone. Hunting had never exactly been his cup of tea, and Ignis gets the sense that Prompto prefers watching the wildlife come back to picking off whatever animal couldn't be saved that day.

Prompto can still chatter a mile a minute. He retains stories like a sponge. He repeats conversations for Ignis verbatim.

"'Y'all'd've daahd,'" Prompto recounts solemnly. "That's what she said, anyway."

"You didn't tell her about the ribbon, I gather."

"She thought it just looked cute!"

Prompto sounds well. And because Prompto doesn't want Ignis to have to take his word for it, Prompto always finds some excuse to reach out for Ignis's hand at some point during these visits, to wrap his fingers in his own solid grip. Ignis is grateful for this.

"You meet anybody lately?" Prompto says sometimes.

Of course Ignis meets people. He doesn't really talk to them beyond polite pleasantries, but that's a different matter.

Prompto considers this. "Come with me to the market?" Prompto asks.

He might as well. "Of course."

\--

Of all of them, Gladio had handled the Dark the worst.

It turned out that making your way through the world without the aid of sight required a fair amount of faith. Faith that the people you relied upon would lead you true. Faith that the ground would be where you put your feet, and the walls where you recalled them being. Faith that that the things you'd thought you'd heard weren't just in your imagination, and that days would pass even though you had no easy way to time them, and that morning would come (or, rather, continue to not come) despite the fact that you couldn't tell light from dark. Faith that you would learn, and get better at things.

Ignis picked up the habit of faith more easily than he'd expected of himself. Maybe he'd always been less of a skeptic than he'd thought.

And so when Ignis spoke, "When the king returns," he'd always meant it. It was as simple as that.

Prompto was more disbelieving, but Prompto had learned to live with doubt a long time ago. Prompto could deal with the discomfort of uncertainty. Prompto could handle the what-ifs, what-if-nots; could swallow fear and take leaps into nothingness without more than a backwards glance. He took things as they came.

Gladio had been taught to think in worst-case scenarios. To catch the blades before they fell.

Gladio never spoke about Noct during the Dark.

It became easier for Ignis to talk to Prompto, in those days. Just a bit.

\--

"What do you think Aranea wants for her birthday?"

The market is bustling around them, and Prompto sounds torn, as if he's looking at something and debating whether to buy it or not.

"Why do you assume I have any idea what Aranea would want for her birthday," Ignis says. He can't even bring himself to inflect it like a question.

"I don't know, you're good with people? Do you think she likes jewellery?"

Ignis has no clue what might indicate that someone is the type of person who likes jewellery. "What kind of jewellery are you considering?"

"The glittery kind? Or maybe not glittery. I don't know. Matte? Is that the word?"

"I'm sure she'll enjoy whatever you get her," Ignis says. Prompto's probably not even listening.

Prompto stops for a long moment, apparently deep in thought. Ignis waits patiently.

"You know, I thought about getting you a scarf for your birthday," Prompto adds, suddenly.

Ignis's brows shoot up. Well, that would have been... a surprise. "For warmth?" Ignis hazards. He certainly hopes it wasn't supposed to be for ornamental purposes. To be fair to Prompto, Ignis can't think of anything else he might have need of, so perhaps he should just be flattered by the effort.

"Nah. For the dust," Prompto says. "It's coming back with a vengeance now that the sun's cracking up the flats again. When was the last time you were out there?" Prompto sounds curious.

The last time had ventured out of town had been with Prompto, in fact. Ignis suddenly feels oddly embarrassed.

Prompto seems to mistake his embarrassment for skepticism. "The roads are a lot better now," he insists, as if this was what had been keeping Ignis in place. "You know, we ought to get out there sometime. You and me, for old times' sake? Whaddya say?"

The prospect makes Ignis apprehensive for some reason. "I can hear about the views from Hammerhead as well as I can anywhere else," Ignis points out, and wonders sourly if he's starting to sound like Cid already. He is, as they might say, too young for this shit.

"Yeah, I know," Prompto says, slightly put out, but he tries anyway. "There's gotta be somewhere you want to go. You know you don't have to stay put anymore, right?"

There's a tug of something foreign in Ignis's chest, and he thinks — I have to be here — I have to be here when —

_When the king returns._

"Don't be foolish. I'm happy where I am," Ignis says.

\--

Gladio had gifted Ignis with audiobooks after the Dawn. Ignis suspects it was an apology of sorts.

The selection isn't great — just whatever Gladio managed dig up at trading posts or find during scouts of abandoned towns. Ignis listens to lectures on maritime law, steam-powered machinery, comparative religion; he listens to sordid romances, tacky science-fiction, melodramatic thrillers. He listens to old compilations of radio shows, and recordings of theatre table-readings, and poetry in languages he can barely understand.

Once in a while, he listens to a history or strategy text, and realizes several hours in that he's read it before — somewhere in the Citadel libraries, most likely. He recalls familiarizing himself with formation of this or that accord, or with the life of some famous foreign monarch, or with the best practices for negotiating with diplomats from democratic territories. He always gets a thrill of satisfaction when he realizes he _remembers_.

That satisfaction is all he gets out of it, really. Those countries are gone. Those wars are over, those traditions have dissipated, and Ignis isn't an advisor to a king, or a strategist, or a diplomat. He's none of those things.

It's quite funny. All those years, and for what?

His manners are still impeccable, at least.

\--

"So," Prompto says, as they head back from the market. He trails off for so long that Ignis wonders if he's forgotten what he was about to say.

"Yes?" Ignis says.

"So," Prompto says again. He sounds uncomfortable in a way that Prompto only ever gets around a wistful sentiment that he is desperately attempting to force into words. Ignis hopes to all the hells and back that Prompto isn't about to ask him for love advice. Or, gods forbid, a blessing.

"Prompto," Ignis prods.

"So," Prompto says a third time. Then he takes a breath. Forced casual. "It's been a year, huh?"

Ignis raises his head.

A year since the Dawn. He'd known it, but somehow hadn't expected it to be remarked upon.

"Indeed it has," he agrees.

"I didn't think this day would ever come," Prompto says quietly. He sounds wistful.

"I hope you didn't expect us to be kept in the dark forever," Ignis says, dry, to cover up the fact that he'd never had a doubt. Not once. It was only when the sun had come back that Ignis had felt lost.

"No," Prompto says, "But I'd kind of hoped — you know — I'd kind of wanted... _him_ to be here."

Ah.

"We are here," Ignis says with ease, even though the words feel empty to him. "And that was enough for him."

The roads are quiet. Prompto's stopped walking.

"I don't know about that," Prompto says.

\--

This is something Ignis knows:

There is a stack of photographs in Prompto's front pocket.

Ignis does not know what they are of. He knows the subjects, but he cannot see them. He does not know whose smile it is that gets Prompto quiet, whose joke he is remembering when he snorts, what ridiculous pose has elicited that tiny laugh; what breathtaking sight is documented on the slip of laminated paper that can no longer be found today.

One day, Ignis had intended to ask Prompto to describe them for him. But he had never taken the opportunity to do so.

Ignis wonders sometimes if those photographs are what keep Prompto going. They are not bound into a book. They are a loose stack, and photographs can be removed or added at will; there is one, Ignis knows, that Prompto will never get back, and a slip of blank stock in its place to remember it by.

The memories Prompto holds close are with him always, and the ones he discards are never to surface again.

Ignis's memories are not like that.

He never chose them. An advisor does not forget what he has seen — no detail, no name or face or moment, nothing that could be of eventual use. And an advisor does not choose what he sees — he is with his king, always.

Ignis has no visual memories from after his king fell. He has an album in his mind of everything in his life to that moment, and he lingers on some pages longer than others, but he adds none, and he removes none. None of them, after all, truly belong to him.

\--

"Why are you still here?"

They are standing in the middle of the road. The tone of the question isn't a judgment. Prompto sounds lost, afraid, uncertain and curious. There is no venom in the asking, or none for Ignis, anyway.

"Pardon," Ignis says. "Dare I ask for elaboration?"

"Iggy, I know you miss him — " and there it is, Ignis thinks with a slow dread, that stab of pain again — "I miss him too. Believe me, I know. But wouldn't he want you to, I don't know, live?"

"In case your eyes have begun to fail you as well," Ignis says slowly, "I am... very much alive."

"Yeah, but — " Prompto groans. "No! That's not what I — look. You're always here for me and Gladio. Whenever I stop by, you're there, and you always make time to chat, and Gladio says it's the same for him, and I don't — okay, I do know what we'd do without you, and _trust_ me, it looks sad." Prompto draws a breath. "We appreciate it, Ignis, we really do. But the — the Scourge is gone."

Ignis frowns.

"It's gone. The Empire's gone, the daemons are gone — hell, the Crownsguard are gone, and it's just us now. It's just the bunch of us. It's not a matter of life and death. You can loosen up a little." Prompto sounds awkward. "And... trust me, I don't want to rock the boat or anything because you have no idea how much I _love_ your cooking, but you don't... you know, you don't gotta do it. You don't gotta do anything for us."

Ignis feels a slow slide of cold into his stomach despite himself. "My intention was never to smother you," he says, because it sounds like Prompto is saying he doesn't want him around so much, and that does twinge a little.

"Dude, that is not at all what I'm complaining about," Prompto says. "I'm talking about _you_. When was the last time you, I don't know, met someone new? Did something totally for fun? Took a risk on something and let it fall to pieces? Tried a new dish for the first time and thought, you know — " Prompto's voice cracks — "'good enough'?"

Ignis has no idea what Prompto's on about.

He'd always spent his free time when he was younger training, or reading, or attending council, or looking after Noct. During the Dark, it had been a matter of surviving — making sure he was there to aid the king, to aid Noct, when he returned. He didn't, as a rule, meet people who weren't part of the royal social circle — what would be the point? And nothing's 'good enough' when you have the fate of an entire kingdom resting in your hands.

Which Ignis doesn't, now.

 _Married to a job that you don't even have,_ a sardonic voice says in the back of his mind.

"Prompto, get to the point," Ignis says, patience running short.

"I just think you could stand to think about what you want for a change," Prompto says, easy, as if that's something just anybody could afford to do.

"I want the rest of you to make it through the day unscathed," Ignis says without missing a beat. Part of Ignis thinks they'd do fine without him, honestly, and that's the part of him he hates the most of all.

"I know we're not always the most on top of things, but Eos isn't going to melt into ash if you take a breather," Prompto jokes weakly.

 _And what will Ignis do? What'll keep Ignis from crumbling straight to dust if nothing keeps him going?_ "I'm fine, Prompto. I'm perfectly content with the life we've made."

"But there's so much — isn't there anything that you've wanted to do? Thought, well, if I ever had the time — "

"Noct bought us this time with his life," Ignis says, short. A reminder. This life didn't come cheap. This second chance wasn't something to _waste_.

"Yeah, but Noct would've — "

Noct would've what? What would Noct have wanted? What did Noct want for them now? What could possibly have been worth the sacrifice? Ignis should know. Ignis had always known Noct the best. He'd been with Noct since they were both _children_. He'd fought so long, so hard, to stay at Noct's side, and now? Noct would've — Noct would've —

"I wasn't the only one in the running to serve Noct," Ignis snaps.

Prompto goes silent.

It's the first time Ignis has said this aloud.

Prompto, who had grown up civilian, who had been chosen by Noct simply for being _Prompto_ , wouldn't have known.

Gladio would've known. Anybody with a cursory knowledge of Lucian traditions would've known. Advisors to the king were trained from a young age. There was an attrition rate, as there naturally was with any group of people over time, let alone a group where membership involved such a strenuous lifestyle and such rigorous testing. More candidates were trained than would be necessary in the end. Children dropped out. It was a simple matter of practicality.

Only the best ever made it to the top.

Ignis was the best.

Had been.

He'd worked so hard for so long, and he'd made it. He'd been _proud_. Gods.

"I fought for my position," Ignis says. His tone is wrong, cold, tight, and he wants to course-correct, but his damned voice keeps catching.

"Iggy, that's not what I meant," Prompto says, and he sounds rueful. There's something quiet and careful in his voice, and Ignis feels something twist in his gut because how _dare_ he think he has a right to _pity?_

Ignis turns on his heels and leaves.

"Ignis!"

Ignis keeps going.

Prompto, thank the Astrals, has the grace not to follow.

\--

He remembers Noct's voice most clearly from those days.

It had been morning. It had rained the night before, and the campground was wet and cool. The pot had been bubbling on the stovetop, and Noct had been standing over it hesitantly with a spoon, and Ignis had been close enough to feel the heat of it.

He'd instructed Noct to stir, but Noct had stopped, pot momentarily forgotten at Ignis's unwitting admission.

"All these years," Noct had said, quiet. "And you've never stopped worrying about me." He'd sounded just a little surprised.

Ignis hadn't really known what to say, so he'd demurred. "My royal duty, per His Majesty."

"Your hobby," Noct had corrected with a small smile.

Ignis hadn't intended to love what he did.

Once, maybe, he'd wondered what his life would've been like if he hadn't been chosen for this. But by then, it hadn't seemed to matter.

\--

Prompto finds him back at home later, knock on the door of the caravan, faint query. He opens the door when Ignis acknowledges it.

Ignis is sitting at the small kitchen table, face turned towards the wall. He always lets someone else have the window seat. Ignis doesn't need the light, and can't appreciate the view. He supposes he might look odd, sitting facing the corner, but nobody is here to see him.

"Ignis," Prompto says awkwardly. "I'm sorry. About earlier."

"No need to apologize," Ignis says flatly. And there isn't. He's not angry with Prompto. He's not sure who he's angry at. "I was out of line."

Prompto considers him. Then he sighs and treads across the floor, letting the door creak shut behind him.

Prompto slides into the seat across from him and wraps his hands around Ignis's, warm on the mug of coffee, warm from the fading sun outside. Ignis doesn't move.

"Iggy," Prompto says. "What do you want?"

Ignis's mouth thins. "An Ebony would be good," he says.

"Dude, sorry to say, but that's gonna be a few years out," Prompto says wryly. He shifts. "Really. You don't have to answer straight away, but just... think about it."

Ignis tries to think about it.

He wants his old tailor back. He wants the years back. He wants better fresh produce back. He wants to be able to drive again, and he wants that tiny dessert shop on the corner of Insomnia's fashion district again, and he wants Iris to talk happily about wedding dresses again, and for Cid to see the places from his childhood that he tells them about again. He wants a way to travel from outpost to outpost without having to plan it for weeks in advance again. He wants Gladio to laugh again. He wants

He wants Noct back.

"I want," Ignis says, "For us to be happy."

There's a current in the air.

"Thanks, Iggy," Prompto says, voice soft. "I really — really mean it. But what would make you happy?"

Ignis doesn't know.

"Just think about it," Prompto says. "You don't have to tell me."

Prompto sits and holds his hands, and he doesn't let go. Ignis thinks that one of these days, one of these days — he'll have an answer.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> (This one was personally tough to write because I'm slightly Ignis, and there's an element of _what the fuck am I talking about_ here. I tried my best. The ending's hopeful, because I've had a few Promptos in my life, and I hope everybody finds at least one.)
> 
> Thanks y'all — find me at [mushydesserts.tumblr.com](https://mushydesserts.tumblr.com/) if you wanna chat!


End file.
